


che vuole questa musica stasera

by kakashihatake123



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, F/M, Mentions of Rhaegar Targaryen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 03:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8694091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashihatake123/pseuds/kakashihatake123
Summary: The Man From U.N.C.L.E AU
Watching. It was all she seemed to do, her eyes upon him, watching. At first it had been wary, as though she half expected him to throw himself out of his chair and wrap his hands around her neck. And then it had been apprehensive, as if Sansa was waiting for something to make her slide back into her wariness. And now…now he could not quite place his finger upon it. He had grown used to it more easily than he would have anticipated, so accustomed to the feel of her eyes upon his back that he seemed not to notice anymore.But now it was his turn to look at her.





	

 

 _Watching_. It was all she seemed to do, her eyes upon him, watching. At first it had been wary, as though she half expected him to throw himself out of his chair and wrap his hands around her neck. And then it had been apprehensive, as if Sansa was waiting for something to make her slide back into her wariness. And now…now he could not quite place his finger upon it. He had grown used to it more easily than he would have anticipated, so accustomed to the feel of her eyes upon his back that he seemed not to notice anymore.

But now it was his turn to look at her.

The crystal decanter the hotel had provided lay open and half sideways, the glass in her hand glinting as it reflected the orange light from the ornate chandelier above their heads. Her pyjamas ruffled with every step, her bare feet padding up and down the patterned marble as she moved across the floor. She wore sunglasses, those massive white and black things, round as the mouth of the glass she was currently refilling, despite the fact that it was nearing midnight.

All he had wanted was a game of chess. A good, long, exhausting game where the moves could not be predicted and the strategy was so far planned that it made a headache bud at the base of his skull. After three days of Jaime Lannister snipping at him and men shooting at him and sprinting through the hotel like a bat flung from hell. It had been all he had wanted.

And yet there they were. Sharing the last remaining hotel room in the hotel with Sansa, the girl who stared at him. The girl who stared at him and who listened to her records loud enough for them to be heard outside the building. He supposed it was an enjoyable song. Not that she had asked him if he too wanted to listen to it, and he could not have her catching sight of his tapping foot.

So instead he glowered, leaning over his chessboard and pretending to plan his next attack as though he could have done anything over the blast of music grating his ears.

“Would you consider turning it down?” he called over his shoulder. She made no response. He was unsure of whether she had actually heard him over the loud music and just when he made to speak again she turned to him, her pin stripes pyjama pants rolled up around her ankles, pale feet sliding upon the Persian carpet laid over the floor.

She had offered him a glass, the amber coloured liquid circling the bottom of it, the ball of ice she had poured into it melting and making dew run down the side of it. Sansa had already finished her own drink and when he rebuffed her offer she made quick work of downing his drink, her throat bobbing as he swallowed.

Jon had cut his eyes to her. “Would you like a bigger glass?”

Sansa had pursed her lips at him, giving a playful roll of her eyes. “I don’t need a glass.” She had replied, bringing the mouth of the bottle to her puckered lips. “But I do need a partner. I am going to finish this bottle, the only question is- are you going to help me or not?”

“Not.” He had growled. The chess pieces had begun to blur before him, the shape of the King having grown to resemble a knight. Or perhaps a bishop. He ran his tongue across the length of his bottom lip, frowning.

“Fine.” she had quipped waspishly, getting to her feet. “I’ll have fun on my own.”

Jon had thought then that she would retire. That she would take with her to bed the book that she had been reading, something about a princess kidnapped by an evil king. Or maybe even draw a bath. He had spotted bottles of fresh, perfumes soaps in the bathroom when he had washed his face earlier in the night.

Instead she had stalked into the other room and a moment later- one moment of blissful, silent, peace he had been allowed during these weeks of stress and brushes with death- he had heard the dull hum of the phonograph and the loud voice of an unfamiliar singer had pierced his ears. Jon let out a grunt, looking over his shoulder. She had vanished from sight and he would have thought her gone but for the hollow rattle of ice in her glass as she moved.

The mirror in the vanity reflected her movements, the slide of her bare feet on the carpet, the way her arms raised over her head, her crimson hair bobbing over her shoulders as her shoulders rolled forward. She is drunk, he thought. She is drunk and she is dancing. His head was aching; his chest was tight and hollow. His mouth seemed to have gone dry. Sansa spun on her feet, her fingers twiddling through the air, her throat bobbing as she took another drink. His eyes were glued to her, Jon feeling somewhat safe with the knowledge that she thought him concentrated on the moves of the board instead of the moving of her hips. He was free to look after her for as long as he desired it. He found his eyes on her raised arms, absently imagining what the skin at the base of her wrist might feel like, seeing it pale as cream and nearly translucent, the pulse of green and blue vein shining through.

Then his eyes were on her face, grazing across her the parted lips that moved along with the words of the song, the eyes she had pressed shut, the bob of her throat as she sucked in great heaps of air, before they rolled down the length of her body, pausing only at her hips. The fabric of her pyjama tunic had gathered around her hips, the silk pulled taut over her body in such a way as to make his cheeks flush and his eyes flicker away before they were pulled back to her with a force almost magnetic, passing everywhere he wished his lips might be able.

His brain was screaming at him. Turn back to your game. Turn back to your game. None of this mattered, he knew. It was just a mission. He had done a thousand missions before. He would do a thousand missions after. Turn back to your game.

And yet Jon could not. He could not turn his attentions from the vixen before him back to the dull landscape of black and white marble and shining pieces. His blood rushed in his ears, his grip on his rook far too tight. Turn back to your game. The voice would not be sated until he followed its command, the piece in his hand frozen, half lifted from the board, half in its new square. He shoved his knight forward; not caring if it meant it would easily be captured by a measly pawn.

He jumped backward, feeling a hand on his shoulder. Sansa looked down at him, her sunglass-covered eyes giving him a glimpse of his own distorted reflection. The pounding of his blood only grew, the feeling of her hand upon him as hot as though her flesh had been replaced with a white-hot poker. “You won’t drink with me.” she noted. “Will you dance with me?”

More than half of the crystal decanter had been emptied and yet her eyes were no less then sharp, trained upon him as she pushed her sunglasses over her head. “No.” he said, turning away, thinking she looked far better in pyjamas than any person ought to. “Thank you.” He had expected her to flit away as she had the last time in search of her own entertainment and yet she did not budge, the eyes she set upon him unwavering, warm with lust. No, he thought, shaking his head. There was no lust in her eyes. It was only a foolish conjuring of his own imagination.

Jon shoved himself to his feet, pushing away her hand but feeling the warmth of where it had just been. “I’m going to bed.” He said gruffly. “Turn this down.”

He stood almost two heads taller than her small frame and yet she still blocked him as he tried to walk forward. The glass had disappeared from her hand, her small fists balled as she turned her wrists in time to the music, her head nodding in this way and that. He tried to move around her, tried to get away from the hypnosis of the music and the undulation of her hips.

Sansa moved to stand before him again, turning at the last second to block him once, twice, three more times. His face was growing red, the bundle of warmth in his chest growing with impatience. “Please-“ “Dance with me, Jon.” she said. If her voice held a question he did not hear it. The hand she offered was far steadier than he would have thought for the amount of vodka she had consumed within the last quarter hour. “I need a partner for this. It’s no fun by yourself. Although…you seem to have quite a bit of fun by yourself.” Trying, and failing, to school his face into neutrality Jon tried to tell himself she had meant playing alone in chess. But even he could not be fooled by thinking such a thing. The drink had made her bold, had taken the shyness out of her words as though it had never been there.

“No.” he choked out. Her perfume was sweet and floral and as he looked down at her he saw she was still wearing the ring he had bought her, a replacement for the one Rhaegar Targaryen’s men had stolen. It glinted in the light from the fire she had asked him to light mere hours ago, when she had still been shy and watching. “No?” she repeated. “You can’t dance? Or you won’t?”

A hand lifted from her side to take his, her thin fingers making a trail down his forearm until she reached his hand. He could feel her skin, smooth and cold against his own, the feeling of her hand sliding into his far too familiar for comfort. He wanted to jerk away, wanted to return to his bed and his silence and his comfort. But he seemed to be frozen in her beam.

He opened his mouth to speak but found nothing quite came out. He wondered what his father would think, watching him flap his lips like a fish out of the sea, a beautiful woman just having asked him to dance.

Sansa’s hands wrapped around his own, guiding him gently to follow her as she swayed side to side, her head lolling to the music. It was louder now, or perhaps that was the sound of blood rushing through his ears. His legs were awkward and unsteady as he begrudgingly followed her movements. He could not help but think that the last time he had danced was when he was six years old at his great aunt’s wedding. And even then he hadn’t been very good at it.

He smiled down at her, a discomforted smile, but a smile nonetheless. It seemed to take years of his features, the dark, brooding man she had grown used to melting away right in front of her. Sansa smiled in response, pressing his hands together in a makeshift clap. His legs seemed to have regained their feeling, moving easier now, stepping back and forth, back and forth. It was easy now. The music was fading from unbearable to almost pleasant, although in the back of his mind he knew it was still too loud.

At once something struck him and with a stinging pain he realized it was his own palm, guided by her hand. He glared down at her, his lips pursed, and she giggled. “Couldn’t resist.” She muttered. “Won’ happen again.”

He could not believe himself actually dancing. He wondered what Jaime might say, though he could easily assume the man would laugh at him and find something to tease him over. But right now he did not care. He only cared about her and him and the space that was swiftly closing between them.

Sansa struck him again, taking him so off guard that he exhaled sharply. His hands dropped back to his sides when she released him, turning her back to him and reaching once more for the bottle, the slosh of liquid loud as she lifted its head to her lips. “What are you doing?” he demanded, a spike of anger coursing through his words. “You’re not in that old chop shop in King’s Landing any more.”

She sniffed. “Yes I can see that.”

He looked down at her, her sunglasses having slid once more over her eyes and causing two identical figures of himself to stare back into his own eyes. “Don’t make me put you over my knee.” She turned to him sharply and at once he could feel his anger deflate, the expression on her face one he could not place. He did not mean to say it, he thought. He had only wanted her to stop. He hadn’t liked the way she had laughed at him, but he had never really planned to do it. He would never hurt her. She had to know that? Didn’t she.

By the time he opened his mouth to speak she had beat him to it, taking her sunglasses off her eyes and tossing them onto the bed. “So you don’t want to dance-“ she questioned. Jon wondered if he had hurt her. If he had just turned back to his chessboard, all of this nonsense could have been avoided. “But you do want to wrestle?” “Wha-“

Her shoulder pushed into his belly with enough force to knock him backwards. They flipped over the far end of the sofa and rolled onto the floor, Jon’s foot taking with it six of the bright yellow cushions. He gasped, all the air suddenly forced out of his lungs by the weight of her body. Sansa held him to the floor, crimson hair lying messily about her shoulders after her dancing had forced it down from its pins. Her hands were on his collar, her head bowed so low that he could feel her breath on his lips, the scent of her shampoo almost intoxicating.

One of the plates that had been on the table had crashed down and a chunk of china dug into his side. She was laughing at him again, he thought, only deeper and darker. It took a moment to realize that it was his own laugh, echoing around the room and over the phonograph. He spun so that she lay beneath him, her hands gripping his shoulders, her legs pried around his waist to leverage herself just right so when he adjusted himself to push away the broken plate she was able to flip him once more onto his back.

Her body pinned him down, her hands closed into fists around the nape of his shirt, her bare feet cold as they lay on either side of him. She was breathless and panting but there was a smile on her face, her blue eyes filled with mirth, both of them knowing that Jon had lost his desire to fight.

Jon held his breath as her face loomed closer, closing the distance between them quickly enough to make his stomach flip. Her arm slipped through his grip, her chest so flat against his that he could feel her belly inflate with every breath. Jon’s throat was constricting, nervousness clawing at his insides like a ravaging animal. He could taste the liquor on her breath, could feel the corner of her mouth pressing against his. Her hair tickled his brow, dancing over his face like red string.

In their scuffle a pillow had been torn and feathers rained down around them, the fan that oscillated in the corner of the room blowing about the debris. Sansa’s body lost all of its tension so that it sunk against him, curving so perfectly to his body that it felt perfectly comfortable to have her flush on top of him. His hand skated down her back until it settled at her waist, the curve of her hip fitting comfortably against his palm.

Sansa fell slack against him all at once, the lips that had been pressed to his falling to brush his cheek and then reach his ear as though she were about to share an intimate secret with him. It was as though the empty bottle of vodka seemed to catch up with her for she was all at once asleep, spread across him like he was a mattress and she was a sheet.

Jon smiled into her hair, lifting her easily into his arms with the intention of carrying her towards her actual bed. She moaned softly, letting out a short sigh as she fell deeper into slumber. Her arms lay around his neck like a chain, keeping her steady as he rose to his feet, feeling her slight body curve against his.

Her bed stood beside his, made perfectly by one of the maids that morning. Jon pushed aside the blankets until there was space for her to lie, finding her arms had locked around his neck and her legs at his waist. He smiled fondly to himself, grinning at the idea of having shared her drink and having to be carried to his bed by her. What a sight that would have made, he thought. Perhaps another time. When Jon finally felt her give and unlatch from his body he watched as she curled against herself, shivering slightly despite the warmth of the blooming fire. He laid the blankets over her and tucked them beneath her chin, carefully arranging the pillows around either side of the bed so she would not roll onto the floor in the midst of the night.

He paused, brushing a strand of fire coloured hair from her eyes. “Goodnight little chop shop girl.” He muttered, hoping his voice did not wake her. He looked at her sleeping form, a pleasant sort of warmth settling in his belly at the sight of her, a callused finger rising to brush aside a strand of dark hair. As he turned to go he felt a tug on his sleeve and saw that her hand had raised to grip his, long, thin fingers gently squeezing his before her hand fell once more onto the cushioned blanket, a hint of a smile on her face.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like :)


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